


drop me a line, when you can

by smallestbrown



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Horror, Coping, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Mostly canon compliant but my sasha james is alive and kickin', Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Quarantine, Sasha James Lives, Spoilers for MAG39, Texting, Trypophobia, but its not really a chatfic?, pseudo-chatfic you'll see, sasha james aka ill open up over my dead BODY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallestbrown/pseuds/smallestbrown
Summary: In the aftermath of Jane Prentiss’ attack, the nightmares come easy. It’s the talking that’s harder.Or, Tim spends his time in quarantine as follows: moping, staring at the walls, and texting Sasha James. Featuring explorations on nightmares, trauma, uncapitalized text messages, and that feeling you get when you text someone you might like.CW for your canon-typical horrors, descriptions of a panic attack, and talk of isolation/quarantine.
Relationships: Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 45
Kudos: 122





	drop me a line, when you can

In white canvas tent walls with plastic-paper windows, Tim waits out his 14-day quarantine with itchy skin, bored out of his mind.

 _i am spending way too much time on twitter_ , he texts Sasha. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since the attack, but the EMT in a hazmat suit acting as his only real-person connection to the outside world had confirmed she’d made it out fine— _alive_ —and was currently on paid leave from work. Tim waits an hour, and gets no response. He swallows.

_i assume your post-prentiss pastimes include nothing but cool and hip hobbies like_

_basket weaving_

_glasses cleaning_

_color-coding, then alphabetizing, then re-color-coding your bookshelf_

_Actually,_ comes her response, _my new system involves organizing it by year of publication, then alphabetically by publisher._

_Obviously._

Tim almost sighs in relief. _obviously,_ he replies, and is typing out a string of emojis meant to signify something along the lines of _I’m cooler than you_ and _I know you too well_ and _you're such a nerd, sasha james_ —

 _How’s quarantine?_ Her text interrupts. He swallows again, and gets up to signal the EMT outside his tent for some water.

_it feels like i'm filming a knock-off version of The Martian_

_except there are no cameras and there is *no* mark wahlberg in sight_

_total rip-off_

_Sounds like you should have read the contract better._

_oh NOW you tell me? where were YOU when my agent was shoving the pen in my hand_

He waits around. That’s what he’s been told to expect, for the remainder of the time he needs to be pseudo-hospitalized in this tent: lots of waiting around. They’re running blood tests and taking scans, and trying to treat what he refers to with a strained laugh as his “wormholes”. But ultimately, he’s just waiting for them to say he can go home.

And after that... Well. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

A picture starts downloading with Sasha’s next message, and Tim opens it up with a punch to his heart. She frowns at the camera, her hair pushed away from her face with a thick headband, and her thin-rimmed glasses valiantly attempting to disguise the sleepless wrinkles under her eyes. She’s cross-legged on her rug, surrounded by piles of books and sticky-notes covered in dates and names.

He types out six different variations of _god it’s good to see you_ and i _’m so glad you’re ok_ and _are you ok?_ before Sasha adds:

_This may not have been my best plan._

Tim backspaces furiously, and responds: _even on leave, you can’t stop being an archivist_

_It’s a sickness, I’ll admit it._

_at least in quarantine, i'm safe from your particular brand of nerd disease_

He scrolls back up to the photo, chasing that feeling that he only really gets when looking at Sasha James: a safe but still terrifying kind of adrenaline. He wishes she wasn’t frowning. Hopes she’s _really_ ok—really. Hopes that she’s happy.

His phone vibrates again.

_Who says you’re not already infected?_

*

Sasha’s watering a would-be basil sprout when there’s a jingle from the kitchen. Sasha hops up from the couch and pads over to her phone. Checks the notification, and stops short.

She hadn’t seen him since the attack, but suddenly it’s like the scars that pepper his face and arms in the photo are carving holes in her heart all the same. In the picture, Tim grins back at her—cheeky, self-assured, unfortunately handsome—with an arm looped around someone in a hazmat suit.

The bags under his eyes are purple and greying, and the sneaky dimples in his cheeks she so rarely gets to see are emphasized by dark, scabbed-over wounds. They scatter across his nose and neck, down under his collar. And he’s throwing up a peace sign, because, well, because of _course_ he is.

Another chime from her device: _made a new friend!_

Sasha beams at her phone. _Glad to see you haven’t lost your winning charm._

_glad to hear you finally admit it!_

_What’s the view like over in no-man’s land?_

A pause, and those three, telltale dots. _it's breathtaking,_ he replies, followed by a series of increasingly blurry, grey-white photos, presumably of wherever Tim’s been interned. In the last one, artfully composed, Tim’s hand splits the picture in two. Covered in red and dark marks. Poignantly flipping her off.

_Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of class!_

_in your dreams, sasha james_

_what’s the view like for you?_

She goes to her living room window and snaps a photo: the dusty brick of the neighbouring building, the smallest peek of green from a tree you can’t quite see, and the over-sized billboard advertising the latest and greatest coffee machine.

“A message from on high,” Tim had called it once, when he crashed at her place after a night out. “Drink Keurig—no, _consume_ Keurig!” he joked, too boisterous and loud but so earnestly _Tim_ that it made her insides swim. “Thanks _, God_ , I’ll keep it in mind!” He erupted into giggles and toppled over onto the rug. Wine-drunk and solidary to a fault, Sasha joined him. She combed her fingers through his hair, and they giggled “hi” back and forth until they fell asleep.

Sasha blinks the memory away. _Consume Keurig!_ she types, and sends it off with the photo.

_ah, giant coffee-drinking man who looms over sasha’s apartment. how I've missed you_

_I, on the other hand, would relish a two-week break from his particular spectre of death._

_no way, you’d hate it here_

_no books to read, no papers to staple, no old bookstore owners to investigate just because Jon says they’re a potential lead_

_Yeah, sounds like a dream; not sure what your problem is._

_well if you’re up to it we can always swap places_

_if i throw on a wig and call myself miss sasha james_

_i’m sure no one would notice_

*

In the tent, with the woosh of traffic and cars, and the chatter of EMTs and researchers and their ever-beeping machines, sleep doesn’t come to Tim easily. It hasn’t for years now, not since—well, it’s been a while, but it’s different now. Worse, certainly. His skin itches all the time, like something’s crawling under the surface, and they’re testing out bandages for his hands just so he can’t scratch himself. With great difficulty, he sends Sasha a picture of his wrapped-up hands, and the caption: _this is the equivalent of a dog cone, I think._

The nightmares carry a different flavor now, too. In the tunnels below the archive, the walls are made of ants and insects, and every step he and Jon take carries the crunch of an exoskeleton. Soon the bugs start to give under their feet, and with every step they sink further and further into the floor, down deep and deep under miles and miles of beetles.

Another dream, where he’s bringing Sasha a leftover sandwich for lunch. She tackles him to the floor in the office of the Archives, knocking out whatever breath he may have. She feels solid and real on his chest, familiar, but when she looks up at him, she shrieks. Her wail rings in his ears even as the worms overtake them, and long after the dream ends.

In another one, when he approaches the theatre and sees Danny’s silhouette, his little brother’s skin erupts in maggots. The clown grows three times his size, unhinges his jaw, and swallows Danny whole with a terrifying crunch.

An EMT is already at his side when he wakes up from that one, screaming. She takes his temperature and checks his heart rate, but when she asks him what’s wrong, the “Nothing, now that _you’re_ here,” he croaks out is terrifyingly shaky. She brings him a glass of water and a pill she says will help him get some sleep.

Tim nods. His skin itches.

He downs the pill without water and lies back down to stare up at the white canvas ceiling of his tent. Lets his mind float him down the streets, past the corner store, past the Institute, back to his flat. Pictures himself sitting at the kitchen table in the dark with all the lights off, and above it all, feels acutely, exceptionally lonely.

*

_day five,_ pings Sasha’s phone while she brushes her teeth. _running low on food and water. formidable strength... waning... a dirty volleyball is my only friend_

_i've named her sasha after… a certain someone_

_Good grief._ She types, one-handed, before spitting her toothpaste in the bathroom sink. _Good morning to you too, Tim._

_;) gmornin’_

_what are you up to today?_

_i'm living vicariously through you_

_If that’s the case, prepare to be disappointed_

_always am. lay it on me_

_Buying a new bike chain._

_:00000_ Tim replies almost instantly. _i didn’t know you biked!_

_A little._

She types in, _The tram just feels too cramped, now_ , but deletes it just as quickly. Tim doesn’t need to know about why she’s been avoiding new public spaces as much as possible since the attack. Why accidentally meeting a stranger’s eye sets her skin crawling.

_It’s not that far to the Institute from mine. Might as well get the miles in!_

_i get that, yeah_

_i'll join you next time!_

Sasha takes a deep breath. She makes herself reply before she can second-guess it: _I’d love that._

_well, after I’ve gotten out of here at least_

_oh sorry_

_yeah that’s great_

_:) awesome_

The quick succession of messages makes her pull up short. Something about their hurry, unguarded—something about how, when she tries to imagine them in Tim’s voice, they come out flustered.

Sasha tries to picture him in his quarantine tent, alone for the next week and a half aside from hazmat suits and blood type tests. Thinks about asking him how he’s doing. Thinks better of it. It’s Tim, after all—he can shed layers better than anybody.

Tim Stoker doesn’t get flustered. She should know that by now. She should know better. She does.

 _Let’s hope your bike hasn’t crumpled to ash by then,_ Sasha replies, then she closes her phone to get ready for the day.

*

Tim spends a lot of time scrolling his phone, or daydreaming, or idly and unconvincingly flirting with the EMT, who can likewise tell his heart’s not in it. That, or the scars really are something to look at. Sasha hasn’t mentioned them, at least. Though it’s not like she would.

He flips over on the horrible bed and reads their text chain again. _I’d love that._ Over and over until the words start to blur.

“Fuck me,” he groans, and the wind outside the tent groans back.

*

When the nightmares come for Sasha, they’re fast and vicious—alternating slides of old and new fears, each fighting for her attention. In one, she’s in the coffeeshop with Michael. She feels the worm under her skin, bustling and burrowing among her arteries. Michael reaches out to her, his face suddenly a spinning wheel of color and motion, and with a too-long, too-sharp finger, her slices her open. Her guts pour out, bloodless—instead, it’s larvae and dirt and flies that coat the tablecloth.

In another, she sees Tim in Jon’s office, and Prentiss over his shoulder. The door to the room locked, and Sasha struggles against it, throwing her weight against the door desperately. When she looks up again, it’s the table from Artefact Storage, heavy and impenetrable. The walls press in on her, and crack her ribs, and steal her name.

Another dream, where her colleagues aren’t her colleagues. They call themselves Jon and Martin and Tim, but Tim isn’t that skinny, and Jon isn’t that tall, and their voices are wrong and their eyes are too large.

Another—there’s something in Artefact Storage, and she knows, sharply and without question, that it has been watching her for years. That every ghost she thought she saw in her bedroom mirror or closet door or hallway light was just this _thing_ , ready and waiting. It opens its mouth and with a horrible grin, and says _Hello_ with a voice Sasha knows is hers. She tries to scream, but her lungs are coated in dust.

By four a.m., Sasha gets up. Brushes her teeth, combs her hair. Keeps herself _busy_.

She tries going to the coffee shop to read, and makes it five blocks before someone walking their dog smiles back at her, and her blood freezes in her veins.

It doesn’t make— _sense,_ she berates herself, as she speed-walks back to her flat. She’s out of breath when she finally locks the door behind her. They’re just dreams, they’re nightmares. They shouldn’t stop her from—living.

She tries again the next day, and again. Makes it as far as the coffeeshop door, but when it opens with a _ding_ every patron looks up at her with the same hungry smile, and even though Sasha _knows_ it’s irrational, that it’s unlike her, she goes home again. Resolves to stay inside all day, and goes running at night when the nightmares keep her up. Orders her groceries online, and doesn’t greet the delivery man.

She doesn’t move on—how can she, with strangers and spirals and something hiding in the dark of her mind every night—but she does adapt. Because she knows _better_.

*

_!!!!_ comes a text from Sasha, 5am and ungodly early, not that Tim minds. His pulse picks up with the message that follows: _ALERT!_

_what's wrng?_

_Sahsa?_

_are yuo ok?_

“God—damnit,” he curses, clumsy and struggling with his hands wrapped as they are. He holds his breath as a picture loads: a small green leaf sprouting from a chipped pot.

_Basil incoming!_

Tim moans on his exhale. He feels like his ribs might collapse.

_oh my god sash, you can’t scare me like that_

_Sorry, it was important!_

_You know I’m horrible with plants._

She’s fine, he repeats to himself, swallowing back the last echo of Sasha’s screams from his nightmares. It’s fine. _academia getting a bit old? switching to gardening, are we?_

_Everyone needs a hobby._

_you know, i can really picture you as a gardener_

_countryside cottage, tending your cows. planting some rutabaga_

_you've already got one of those gigantic floppy hats_

_Building my escapist fantasy for me?_

_well someone has to do it._ Tim pauses for a second. _have you ever even taken a proper vacation?_

_Yes I have! I went to Edinburgh two years ago_

_that was for a wedding!! that doesn’t count_

_Why not?_

_that's not time for YOU. that's someone else’s._ He settles on the cot again. It’s good, he finds, to think about Sasha. Though starting a conversation by giving him a heart attack may not be his favorite, it still gives him that sort of floaty feeling. He tries to let that thought warm him, rather than make him anxious.

It’s Sasha. It can be _good,_ it—she doesn’t have to be something he gives up. Something he loses.

_where would you go, if you could?_

_you’ve certainly earned a break by now. what's the james dream vacation_

_I don’t know. Somewhere quiet, I think. Not too many people._

_Somewhere fresh. With lots of trees. And water._

Tim smiles. He thinks about the campground where he normally goes kayaking, and it warms him how easily it is to picture Sasha there too. Hiking up the trails, or picnicking, or fishing or settled in around a campfire. In his mind, he holds out his hand, and she smiles.

_that sounds really nice_

*

Work leave trickles by, until eventually Sasha finds she’d much rather be at work, trying to drown herself in research, than spinning in circles at home, trapped in her mind. Re-alphabetizing, then color-coordinating, then some other bullshit-ing her bookshelf—as Tim would no doubt so delicately put it.

That, and it’s getting harder to ignore the nightmares.

Sasha tosses and turns for what she feels like are an appropriate number of hours, until she forfeits sleep for the night, and goes to get her bike. The breeze is refreshing, and the streets are cool and quiet, empty of people. She gulps in grateful breaths of air.

When she’s locked up her bike and is back in her flat, she texts Tim. _New chain works like a charm!_

_not that i'm not happy to hear it, but were you really out biking at 4 am?_

“Shit,” Sasha curses. She should have checked the time before she messaged him—dammit James, rookie mistake. She’d just been—antsy, maybe. Like she needed to make sure he was still there when she’d cleared her head.

_Bah, can’t sleep._

_You neither, judging by your response time._

_want to talk about it_

_I’m fine, Tim! Really._

Sasha wishes desperately that he was better at this. It’s easier in-person, she thinks. If your smile is just right, your inquisitor—Rosie, Martin, even your mother, sometimes—will drop it. If it’s Tim, he’ll give you a look, clearly unconvinced, but turn back to the coffee machine nonetheless. He’ll crack a joke.

God, she’d kill to hear one of his shitty references right now. Instead of—

_yeah, and that’s a *normal* response to have to everything that’s happened to us._

_Would you believe some of us are just better at coping?_

_no, i wouldn’t. it’s ok though._

_being not-ok, i mean. but it’s also ok if you don’t want to talk about it_

Sasha bites her lip and stares at her phone for a long time. She shoves up her glasses, and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until her head starts to ache. Her phone buzzes again.

_i didn’t mean to push you. i’m sorry._

_*_

More often than not, Tim wakes from his nightmares tired, frustrated, and angry. More and more he’s just _angry_ , all the time—and that fact alone, that powerlessness against the way he himself feels, frustrates him even more.

He calms his breath and tries to float again, in the nothing and the white of the room. He floats and flies, doesn’t touch the ground, close as it is to the earth and the dirt and the dust. Instead, Tim watches a vision of himself fly down the streets of London to Sasha’s third-story apartment. They don’t say a word to each other; he sits next to her on the couch, and she holds his bandaged hand with a smile.

When the EMT comes by that night day with a glass of water and another sleeping pill, he leaves them on the tray, untouched.

_*_

_No, it’s okay._

_I mean, there’s nothing to talk about. But I appreciate the offer._

_i think you’re gonna have to stop running some day, sasha_

_but you're right, it doesn’t have to be today_

_whatever happens, i’ll be here when you need it_

_The “when” is rather presumptive of you, Tim._

_you’re probably right_

_but still_

_I know._

_Thank you._

*

The photo that comes in promptly at 9:05 a.m., the first Monday after Prentiss’ attack, is only a little out of focus. Sasha’s head is tilted into Martin’s shoulder and she beams back at the camera. Martin, at least, has the decency to look somewhat bashful, but he smiles nonetheless. Tim’s chest aches unexpectedly to see them.

 _Back together again!_ She texts. He can’t help the way his heart blooms at the words.

_tell martin he’s a cutie_

_He’s blushing._ Tim smiles.

_so, first day back?_

_Couldn’t come soon enough._

_I’m glad it was paid leave and all, but if I had to spend one more day at home, I think I’d lose it._

_Shit. Sorry, Tim._ He snorts.

_hey, not your fault I got the woodpecker treatment from a bunch of evil worms_

_Right. Still._

He grits his teeth a little, unwillingly, mostly glad no one can see. Maybe he’s getting worse at this, at—lying, essentially. Hiding. Sometimes. But also at making people happy. They’ve always kind of been the same thing, anyway.

I wish I could make you happy, he thinks.

 _don't worry about it,_ he replies.

Tim pictures himself telling her about the nightmares. About the worms. Danny. About how her screams are a part of them more often than not. How he doesn’t think he could handle losing her, too.

Maybe he will tell her. All of it. Maybe when so many parts of you have died, it's worth looking for new reasons to live.

His phone vibrates. _Want to hear about today’s cases?_

_you read my mind_

*

With both Jon and Tim gone, the archival department is quiet. There’s the whirr of the kettle, the shifting of paper stacks, but neither Sasha nor Martin are particularly talkative. It’s always been Tim that cracks the loudest jokes, always Jon that crashes into the office, scattered, trying to follow up on their work for fourteen different cases at once.

She glances up at Martin, who’s on the phone with some landlord. His tone is as close to bickering as Martin seems to get with most people: quick and sharp, but too pleading and apologetic to really get the point across.

Sasha goes back to her computer, where the email thread between two of a statement-giver's key witnesses has taken an interesting turn. _Maybe_ it’s breaking confidentiality and _maybe_ it’s an invasion of privacy—she can’t help being curious, though.

 _You’d like the new case I’m working on,_ she texts Tim.

_oh? do tell_

_Incriminating emails alluding to a potential for torrid romantic subplot between, get this:_

_A mailman and a married woman._

_oooh, that’s the stuff_

_you know me far too well_

_Yup!_

“ _Well_ then, good day to _you, sir_!” Martin says into the phone, and he hangs up, frustrated. Sasha meets his eyes and he flushes. “He wasn’t any help,” he explains.

“Mm. Sorry about that.”

Martin huffs and straightens out. “Not a problem! I can… Figure it out.” He nods, almost to himself. Sasha nods back encouragingly. “Can I get you some tea?”

Sasha smiles. “Sure. Thanks, Martin.”

“Not a problem!” he repeats, shuffling off to the kitchen.

Her phone buzzes. _how many cups of tea has martin fed you today_

_Well, it’s a day that ends in “Y,” so…_

_I’ve lost count_

_god i miss you guys_

Sasha’s grin softens. She glances up to Tim’s desk, abysmally cluttered, but no more than usual—Martin must have been trying to keep the place in order while the rest of them were gone. She pictures Tim at his seat, tea in one hand and a pen in the other. He’s still stubborn about annotating in longhand, rather than in a Word Processor. It’s a holdover from his publishing days which, Sasha supposes, has served him well ever since Jon started griping about digitization and started on his damn tape recorders. She pictures Tim glancing up at her, slipping on that classic grin with a wink, then settling back into his work.

She debates over her response before she sends out, _We miss you too._

_*martin’s tea_

_oh sorry wow what a typo! i meant god i miss martin’s tea_

_weeeeeird_

_Oh, shove off, Tim._

_I’m going back to work._

_:3_

*

Night ticks on, and Tim sits on his bunk and stares at his hands. Wrapped like they are, he looks like a low-budget production of The Mummy. Tim tries not to think about the skin beneath it, porous and gaping, how the holes could just go deeper and deeper into muscle and bone and marrow. How the bandages are just another ineffectual layer over an ineffectual layer, how easy they are to peel back—

“Fuck,” he whispers. His breathing is coming short and fast, his chest tight. “ _Fuck._ No, okay. Shit.”

Tries to remember what one of his therapists had told him, but thoughts are spiral and slippery. Count your breaths—okay, well, there are a lot of them right now—think about where you are—trapped in this godforsaken tent, where if the EMTs have noticed he’s having a panic attack, at least they do him the decency to not interrupt. Tim feels like he’s choking.

Take time to notice what’s around you. Sure, Janet. White walls on walls on walls on walls. This stupid uncomfortable cot. The starchy sheets. He can’t feel their texture well through the wraps on his hands, but on his bare legs they’re thin and rough. He’d kicked the sheets half away in his panic, and now one of his legs pokes out. He follows it down to his foot and counts his toes. Tim can’t find it in himself to try and move them, to break his sudden immobility, but he goes back and forth from big to little toe. One, to five, and back again.

Eventually he manages to say them out loud. One, to five, and back again. One, to five, as his breathing evens out into long, heavy breaths.

“Shit,” he repeats.

Slowly, he starts to feel like he can move again—at least enough to lie down. He counts his breaths up to seven now, and back down, just to give his mind something to do that isn’t the equivalent of throwing itself down a well and hitting every brick on the way down.

When his heart rate has mostly settled, he picks up his phone.

*

_u up?_

Yes, she was, but there’s no sense in mentioning that. It’s a bit too telling, to keep being awake at ungodly hours and still claim to be fine.

_Hey. What’s up?_

_oh same old. quarantined in a tent, skin looks like I got slapped by a tennis racket_

_can I call you?_

_Sure._

Even so, once Tim’s photo starts blinking on her screen, it takes Sasha three rings to steady herself and pick up. She settles in the chair near her window and pulls a blanket into her lap. Takes a deep breath. Answers.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey, Sash.”

They both sound breathless, to her ears, but the breathing on the line is... nice. Not terrifying or disembodied like the sounds are in her dreams—though Sasha is suddenly and acutely aware of how long it’s been since she’s actually _heard_ him. His voice is husky, low, and warm, if a bit off.

“Are you alright?” she asks tentatively, voice hushed.

“Mm,” Tim sounds like he’s somewhere far away.

“...Nightmares?” Sasha hazards.

Tim doesn’t answer right away. She hears him breathe through the phone. Her heart wants to leap out and grab at the sound like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he admits on a sigh. “For a while now, actually. But they’ve been getting worse. Since, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“They—they gave me something to help me sleep, here, but it’s just giving me some _really_ messed up dreams. Which is saying something.” He huffs. “Making sure I don’t miss out! I guess.”

More breathing. It feels good, somehow, to sit in the dark and stare out at the Keurig Demon, and hear Tim breathing. Sasha pulls the blanket a little closer.

“Do you want to... Talk about it?” She clenches her jaw, frustrated at her inadequacy. Tim knows Sasha’s not great at this, has complained of her inability to maintain a _real_ conversation before, but he called _her_. So she’ll be good. She’ll be better.

“If that’s... If it’s okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, Tim.” More breathing on the line. Sasha waits.

“I mean, you know about Danny. That’s, uh... Always a big one. But it’s all jumbled up now. That fucking clown... Prentiss...” Tim’s words start to come faster: flooding, scattered, scared. “The tunnels, the worms. Like a big mess of shit that really, _really_ shouldn’t exist. I don’t know. I feel like I keep losing—everything.” An inhale, harsh. “Some days it feels like there’s nothing left. Like I’m a husk. Like all that’s _left_ of me is the skin. So useless, and—and meaningless! I mean what’s the point if, if everything inside is—” 

Tim cuts himself off. It sounds like something is muffling the speaker, but Sasha can still sort of hear him breathing, raggedly. Her heart cracks.

“I know what you mean,” she says. Hopes it lands with kind of finality that he can understand means she _does_ know—that she’s with him. That he isn’t alone. “I’m so sorry, Tim.”

Tim sighs, this exhausted, shuddering thing. “It’s getting harder to remember what’s a nightmare and what _actually_ happened, you know? I mean, we’ve seen so much fucked up stuff by this point. Hard to think that getting eaten by worms wasn’t something some ancient Greek philosopher would say my subconscious made up.”

“I’m sure any hack dream interpreter would _also_ jump at the chance to misdiagnose you,” she tries.

“Oh, definitely. ‘Mr. Stoker,’” he starts, affecting some haughty-sounding voice and Sasha almost sighs in relief, thankful that he’s taking the setup, “‘it is my empirical belief the worms symbolize your fear of disappointing others, and that the creepy bug lady that attacked your office is just a projection of your resentment for all the stapling Sasha makes you do.’”

“Who knew that staplers could cut so deep!” Sasha lets herself laugh a little. “It certainly sounds like you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“Well, that’s what I get for trying to pay with coupons.”

“Half-off a therapy session in exchange for... What, dinner and a movie?”

“Oh, come on. You know I don’t put out _that_ easy.”

“Says you!”

Tim chuckles, and Sasha feels something flare in her chest. She winds the blanket in her fist and pulls it up to her heart. Listens to him breathe on the line.

She doesn’t know what to do with what Tim has told her, or what she hasn’t told him in return. What do you do when someone hands you their cracked ribs and says, “These are my scars. This is what I’ve got.” How do you hold them to make sure they don’t crack in the same patterns as your own—or, or is it better if they do?

I wish I could be better for you, Sasha thinks.

She swallows down the too-honest thoughts that jump to her throat in the silence. “Only a week to go!” she chirps instead.

“Yyyep. One week.” He seems content to leave his heart-bearing at that. Despite herself, Sasha is grateful.

“Martin’s said he’s buying a cake. Said the Archives were too quiet with you and Jon gone.”

“What, no cake for you? Didn’t even notice _you_ were gone?”

“We’ll—share cakes then,” she manages, trying for casual and landing all wrong. She should tell Tim. Should tell him.

She takes a big inhale, then exhale. “As long as I get to pick the flavor. I know your taste is shit.”

“ _Excuse_ you!”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve _tried_ the fruitcakes you brought in for the holiday party. If that’s your idea of a good buy, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“They’re—nutritious!”

“They’re a health _hazard_ , Tim.”

“—Well, _you’re_ a health hazard!”

Sasha laughs. Maybe a real, proper laugh, the first in god knows how long. Hearing Tim laugh in return feels like a breath of fresh air. “Oh, great comeback.”

“Only the best for you.” She can practically hear the wink in his tone.

Sasha’s fingers play with the edges of the blanket, gracing it with a little smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

_how's the basil_

_It’s a trooper! 2 more leaves._

_veeery impressive_

_I think I can afford to aim a little higher._

_baby steps_

_you’ll get that garden cottage yet_

_Whose escapist fantasy is that, really?_

_what, like we can’t share?_

*

Sasha tries to face things head on. She visits in Artefact Storage, hoping to catch a glimpse of the table, but it feels like every time she wanders in, it’s further and further down the hall. The walk in takes four times as long as the walk out, and Sasha decides that even though there’s no one around to call her on it, exactly, she still has better things to do with her precious few breaks than stare at a creepy slab of wood.

When Martin goes out for lunch, she forces herself to the door to the tunnels, trying to repress a shiver. Sasha peers into the darkness, and valiantly makes it two feet inside before she hears Martin coming back into the office; he’d been gone an hour, and she’d barely moved a meter.

She drinks gallons of Martin’s _how’re you feeling?_ tea and gets better at faking the smile the keeps him placated. She can tell he’s tired too, but at least he isn’t sleeping in the Archives anymore.

She bikes to work and works to exhaustion, hoping the fatigue will grant her a peaceful sleep, though she still wakes up every night, fitful and fearful despite herself. Too dismayed at her lack of progress, too freaked out by the nightmares that twist her inside in stranger and stranger ways. And they do get stranger—or, maybe they stay the same, and it’s Sasha who’s just increasingly fed up with them.

Now, it’s the tram, or her flat, or the rooms of her childhood home that twist in all the wrong shapes. She stares at pictures she’s seen hung on the walls of her home all her life, and recognizes herself in none of them.

Now, the halls of Artefact Storage are indistinguishable from those of her flat, and she runs past door after door, trying to escape something that wears her clothes, and her voice, and her face.

Now, it’s Tim, greeting someone just behind her with a warm-voiced “Sasha,” that comes out snarled and vicious. When she turns to look, she just sees the twisting tunnels below the archive, and spinning back around, she finds Tim gone, and nothing but darkness for miles and miles.

She wakes up with a start and swears. Presses into her eyes with her palms, trying to push the dreams from her mind. Remembers what Tim had told her a week ago: _you’re gonna have to stop running some day._

Sasha inhales, exhales, and looks out the window. The advertising billboard’s Keurig Connoisseur stares back.

 _God_ , she thinks. I’m so tired of running.

*

_Are you awake?_

Yes, he was, but there’s really only one thing that Tim Stoker can reply when he gets a text like that at 2 a.m.

_sasha james! how long I have waited for a “u up” text from your number_

_oh sweet vindication, come to me, darling_

_Shove off. Can I call you?_ He almost drops his phone trying to pull up her contact number, hands still stiff and uncoordinated in their wraps.

Sasha picks up after half a ring. “I take that as a yes.” The bitter half-chuckle in her voice clenches something in his chest, and he sits up on the cot. His heart is beating far too fast.

“Always willing to grace you with my voice,” Tim replies. “How may I be of service?”

She hesitates; Tim lets his heart settle a little in the silence. “Sash,” he says, sitting up properly on the cot. “Talk to me.”

Another beat of silence. “...Nightmares,” she admits softly.

Outside the tent, he hears the whoop of an ambulance speeding past. He fists his bandaged hand in the sheets a little. It suddenly feels a lot like the conversation they had when he called her: not knowing where to start, but somehow knowing it has to come out. And for Sasha to be willing to do so…

Tim swallows. He adamantly does not think about bugs, or burrowing, or being eaten alive, and instead pictures Sasha at home, curled up in her chair. “Yeah?” Tim asks. “You want to... talk about it?”

“...I guess.” Sasha sighs, reluctant. “I mean that’s what you keep saying, right? Talking about it helps?”

“Yeah.” He shifts a little. “Yeah, for sure.” Tim hears her deep inhale, then exhale.

“It’s been happening since Prentiss,” she says, like she’s forcing herself to refer to it by name; pin it, identify it, and make it known. “In this one dream, I’m in the tunnels below the Archive, and there’s something down there with me. It’s dark and I can’t see them, but it’s like... that creepy feeling against your skin that something’s not _just_ right? And then I turn around, and I see _me_.”

A breath. “Or at least, I know it’s me, even though it looks nothing like me. Just I know that this... _thing… is_ me _._ Or, it wants to be. And I get so terrified, I’m—I’m afraid of...”

Sasha sighs. Tim stays quiet.

“Afraid of not being me, if that makes any sense.” She cuts herself off in a self-deprecating chuckle, “Not in some societal, _don’t let the man keep you down_ type of way, but... Like if some stranger off the street came up to me and took up all the _space_ of me. Like I’d be watching my body do things I wouldn’t do.”

“So like, possession?” Tim offers, a little unhelpfully, even as his breath is short and a little high in his throat. He shoves away thoughts of Danny as best he can and puts his hand over the receiver, taking a deep breath and counting up to five and back down in his mind.

“ _Kind_ of.” He can almost hear Sasha’s mouth twisting in dissent. “But it’s more like... Being unmade. Watching everything that I think makes me _me_ sort of... Get turned inside out.”

She sighs again. Through the line, it’s just air in a microphone, but Tim still clenches a fist reflexively.

“And in my dreams, I can’t control it, or stop it, and... no one notices. I don’t know. I just watch this... _Not_ -me, going around and living my life. And I... pound my fists like a stupid little kid, like it’s _mine,_ it’s _my life_. Give it _back_. But no one hears me. You—Everyone just keeps acting like I’m still there. Like it doesn’t make a difference.”

“Sasha.” Tim’s throat feels dry. A million words die on his tongue, but nothing is quite enough. Instead, he forces himself to open his fist before he digs too far into his bandage and his scabs start to bleed again.

“I’m so sorry,” is all he finds to say. He hopes the phone carries how deeply he means it.

“No, it’s fine, I—” She sniffs in a little bit. “Well, talking, huh?” she tries to joke. Her laugh is wet and weak. “I don’t know if it helps, really. But, um—” another sniffle, where Tim’s heart breaks. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Sasha,” he says, if only to taste the way her name feels again. “Please, it’s—It’s okay. I’m sorry. Thank you for telling me. I know how you feel, I’m... I’m glad you called me.”

Sasha is quiet. Tim leans back on his cot, gaze fixed on the white tarpaulin of the quarantine tent, like it could make him feel brave. Maybe it does. Maybe once you’ve been shot through by maggots, he thinks bitterly, you shouldn’t have much else to fear anymore.

“I wish I could hold you,” he says.

Tim lets the silence on the line wash over him. Somehow it feels good to float in the quiet, with that sentence just out there, in the open. A fact. Unperturbed by whatever comes before or after it.

“Me too,” Sasha whispers. Again, she inhales, then exhales, slowly. “It’s... really good to hear your voice.” Her voice is a little louder, a little braver this time.

Tim can’t help his smile, shaky as it is. “You too.” He still feels like he’s floating, but a little different. On the white canvas ceiling, he watches a vision of himself fly back to Sasha’s place again, taking her hand and curling around her on her old couch. Holding her close. “You too.”

*

_Only three more days!_

_like jesus in the desert_

_That was 40 days. First in Anthropology, was it?_

_like jesus on the cross, then_

_Ah, much better._

_well, i am full of holes_

_Yes, Tim._

_Just like the Christian messiah, you do bear a passing resemblance to swiss cheese._

*

They take his bandages off on the last day of quarantine; he’ll have one more full day, one more night of observed quasi-sleep, and head home. Last night’s dreams are still raw and fresh, and he has to look away when they unwrap his hands. Feels bile rise in his throat. Works really, really hard to swallow it down imperceptibly.

The scabs on his hands have healed somewhat, still obvious in a deep shade of blood-orange, baby skin still shiny and bubbly. He's told they probably won’t smooth out with time, too deep to truly heal. The EMT says he’s still pretty cute, and Tim snorts, but doesn’t reply.

He flexes his fingers. His hands shake a little, but—they work. They’re his.

 _You never told me what cake you wanted_ , Sasha texts.

_i was going to, before you started bullying the pillar of holiday festivity desserts_

_Oh please, Tim, pardon my sin and forgive my transgression,_

_And tell me what fucking kind of cake you want._

*

Sasha steels herself, a hand on the door to the bakery Martin mentioned. It’s not too busy inside, only one cashier and a couple standing in line, picking out cupcakes. Someone exits the shop and holds the door for her.

With great effort, she glances up at them and locks her jaw into the terse impression of a smile. They smile back, and Sasha shivers, but does not relent. She takes a step inside.

She buys a cake.

*

And she’s there, looking ragged and radiant, when he signs out with the medical team.

“Buh—Hold on. What?” Tim blabbers when he sees her, and watches her grin go wide. It makes him swell with pride, and more. “What are you—you didn’t _tell_ me you were coming!”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” she teases.

They stand a careful two feet apart. Tim’s hands clutch the strap of his gym bag, stuffed with a change of clothes and some recommended treatment or other. It doesn’t really matter—not when Sasha’s looking at him like that. She holds up a box expectantly.

“You _didn’t_ ,” Tim grins.

“’Course I did. Happy parole, Tim Stoker.” She hands him his fruitcake, and he tucks it under his arm. 

Sasha holds out her hand. “Ready to go?” she asks. She’s beaming.

Tim takes it. It’s real and solid, the stuff dreams—real, good, honest dreams—are made of, and Tim feels like he’s floating in a wholly new way. Just a little, just by the feeling of her fingers touching his.

So he doesn’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://smallestbrown.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/smallestbrown) drawing a BUNCH of timsasha art, including a [titlecard](https://smallestbrown.tumblr.com/post/619686566694174720/drop-me-a-line-when-you-can-sasha-jamestim)(?? idk what else to call it) for this fic, which was super fun to do.
> 
> leave a comment/kudos if you're so inclined, and thank you for reading!!


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